


Frigga's Garden

by Rynfinity



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mental Instability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:47:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2395613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rynfinity/pseuds/Rynfinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is deep in concentration when he feels it:  cool fingers brushing his cheek and settling lightly atop his shoulder.  Loki starts violently and lets out a stream of curses that is neither polite nor artful.</p><p>"Such language in front of your mother," Frigga chides.  Her tone is light, though; her expression warm with amusement.</p><p> ~~~~</p><p>Takes place at some point amongst the events of Thor:  The Dark World.  I'll let you be the judge of when.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frigga's Garden

The weather is nothing short of glorious.

As Loki meanders through the garden - Frigga's garden, arguable her favorite place in all the nine realms, kept healthy and lush and fragrant in the wake of her death by a carefully-choreographed dance of seidr and groundskeepers - the air is thick with humidity and loud with the hum of bees.

He trails one hand along behind him, his fingers ruffling the foliage of the neatly-manicured hedgerow. The bushes' leaves are thick and waxy, dark green to the point of blackness in the sun-dappled shade. Loki draws a slow, deep breath in through his nose, then lets it out in a whistling sigh. In the summer’s heat he smells flowers and peat and dirt... and, woven delicately through it all, tantalizing hints of spice and herbs.

It is yet too early for apples. Hence he brings one along, fresh from the palace cold stores. While its skin is flawless, as always, its golden gleam has turned a bit dull. Tarnished. Loki intends to polish it against the soft weave of his undertunic; this being such a hot day, he has forgone his customary light armor and leathers in favor of strolling about in his underthings.

Decorum matters little; he comes here under a spell that shields his whereabouts from all comers. Loki dresses with an eye to comfort on these small forays, not to prepare for (let alone impress) guests.

Guests, he still receives in the borrowed form of his sleeping fa- of the Allfather.

Loki eschews the gleaming metal benches along the walkway, choosing instead to come to rest cross-legged upon the mossy roots at the base of his favorite tree. This tree was always Thor's favorite, too; the one which played host to all name of ingenious boyish games. Castle, fortress, dungeon. Mountain. Steed to be ridden, monster to be slain. Loki pats the tree lovingly, feeling the familiar rough scrape of its bark beneath his fingers. "You probably still have some of my skin trapped in your crannies and folds," he tells the tree fondly. "Not that your battle for possession of said skin was anything but bravely fought and fairly won."

Sighing as close to happily as he manages these late, sad days – with his brother gone to Midgard, Frigga dead, and his old self lost entirely happiness is a hard, hard thing to come by - Loki leans against the thick and twisted trunk. He breathes deep again, this time to take in the sweet tang of the apple, and sets himself to polishing.

~

He is deep in concentration when he feels it: cool fingers brushing his cheek and settling lightly atop his shoulder. Loki starts violently and lets out a stream of curses that is neither polite nor artful.

"Such language in front of your mother," Frigga chides. Her tone is light, though; her expression warm with amusement.

Loki drops the apple to rub feverishly at his lying, traitorous eyes. But when he finally dares to open them again she is still _right there_ , kneeling gracefully beside him. "How- what-," he stammers, unable to collect his wits about him. "Is this real? Are _you_ real?" It makes no sense. It cannot be. And yet here she is.

Frigga’s brows pull together into a puzzled frown. As Loki watches, two tiny furrows form between the innermost ends of the perfect arches. "What an odd thing to ask your mother." She squeezes his shoulder. "You have been hiding yourself most thoroughly. I have not questioned it; I thought only to give you space."

"To give me space," he echoes. He twists a little to study her more closely. The motion dislodges Frigga's hand from his shoulder and drags it along the curve of his arm. Her fingers have warmed to match his own skin now. They are strong and solid. He can see the faint lines of age in her face. Her eyes sparkle, framed with pale lashes.

"You look like you have seen a ghost," she teases. "Surely you know your seidr is still no match for me."

Loki shakes his head hard, hair flying and eyes tight shut.

When he opens them she is _still right there._

He can’t hold back any longer. "They told me you had _died_ ," he rasps. "In your chambers, at the start of the battle."

She looks shocked for a moment and then achingly sad. “Why would they tell you such a thing? Who told you thus?”

He waves a hand, dismissive. “A guard. One of the Allfather’s Einherjar. I asked not the man’s name.” In the moment, continuing to breathe had taken every last ounce of Loki’s strength. Of his control. Never before in all his long, long years, he remembers - as clearly as if the whole awful thing had just taken place this morning - had he once felt so alone.

Not even after he’d fallen.

Frigga shifts to one hip, dusty bare feet tucked neatly beneath her. She rolls one slim shoulder and then the other. “It was quite a blow,” she admits, pressing a hand against her bodice, “but our healers are unparalleled.” She lets her hand drop to join its partner in her lap. “You of all people should not need to be told that.”

She is not wrong. Thor was always the larger, the stronger; consequently, Loki was the more frequently damaged. He nods, thinking back to childhood. And then he can’t maintain his composure further.

“Oh, my darling boy,” Frigga says, her voice warm and rich with sympathy. “My poor son.” She wraps her arms about his shoulders and pulls him close. “Hush. Everything will be fine, I promise.”

Loki presses his face against her bodice and sobs, much as the child he had once been might have done. She hums softly and rubs gentle circles into the back of his tunic. As always, she is endlessly patient as he cries. “Let it go,” she tells him over his wet, ragged sobs. “You will feel better once it is all out of you.”

~

 _His mother_ holds him in her strong arms, rocking him gently, until at long last Loki runs completely out of tears. “Shh,” she soothes. “I will never leave you. You know I could not do so if I tried.”

He snuffles and nods wetly against her bosom. “I am so sorry,” he offers. “For everything.”

She cuddles him close. “I know you are,” she assures him, “I know. Together we will make it better.”

~

“I am sorry to bother you,” the guard tells Eir. They stand together outside the prisoner’s cell, leaning almost dangerously close to the buzzing golden barrier. “He has not eaten in some days and, when we could not rouse him, I- I became concerned.”

They watch for several minutes as the prisoner, thin shoulders shaking and face buried in his pillow, snuffles and mutters to himself. “I shall need to enter,” Eir insists. “I am warded. He can do me no harm,” she explains as the guard hesitates. “I swear it. Please let me in.”

The cell stinks of sweat, and urine, and the burnt ozone reek of the containment barrier. Eir takes a moment to get her bearings before approaching the prisoner on quiet feet. “Can you hear me,” she asks softly when she’s just out of striking distance; his seidr is blocked here, and he’s naught but skin and bones besides, but there isn’t any reason to take unnecessary chances.

He rolls partly over, not loosing his grip on the pillow. “Anything for you, mother,” the prisoner mumbles. “Together we _will_ make it better. Of course we will.” He heaves a huge, shuddering sigh. “I love you.”


End file.
